


sore back and sore bones

by Anonymous



Category: Germany National Football Team RPF, Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kelpies, M/M, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 16:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In which Thomas is a sex kelpie but everything else is the same





	sore back and sore bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scheherazade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/gifts).



The sun sets early in December, long low rays glinting across still-fresh snow thick in the trees and the bushes on the shore, picturesque on the houses and buildings further up the lake; the water is still and calm against Miro’s boat where he drifts alone on the Tegernsee, catching a last few moments of peace before he has to return to the world and everyone in it. That had been the theory, anyway, and it had proceeded rather nicely for some time, until the movement in the trees had become impossible to ignore.

It’s always been easier for Miro to see over water, even things that are trying to hide themselves. A faint pale shadow against snowy brush in the growing dusk where there should have been nothing at all -- he thinks he wasn’t meant to see it. It would probably be rude to mention it. But then, he thinks, as he steers the boat back to dock, watching-without-watching the long circle around the edge of the lake, it’s also a bit rude to follow someone out on their retreat uninvited, isn’t it?

“You’re four months late for _Rosstag,_ ” he says to the chilly air as he steps off the last board and onto solid land again.

The snort he gets in return is half-human, torn between scoff and acknowledgement, but the horse that detaches itself from the patch of thicket and steps gingerly down onto the lakeside path with him looks like nothing but a horse -- tall and bony, white coat wild and shaggy with winter growth. 

Miro brushes some snow off his withers and gets another snort and a full-bodied shudder for his trouble. He supposes it wouldn’t really surprise anyone that Thomas always has enough to say even when his mouth isn’t physically capable of forming words. “Yes, I saw you,” he says. 

Thomas shoves him in the shoulder with his nose, rolling his eyes, and bites at his jacket until Miro shoves back. It doesn’t budge him, of course, but Thomas at least leaves off trying to eat his clothes and just settles for pushing his head against Miro’s chest, making half-audible grumbling noises until Miro settles his hands into the wiry curls of his mane.

He hadn’t planned on going riding tonight; he had planned on staying on the lake until he was chilled to his core and then going in for dinner and something hot. Still, he can’t say this was entirely unexpected, either, even if Thomas hasn’t followed him like this in years. He doesn’t insult him by asking if it’s bad, just stands for long minutes, trying to silently talk _himself_ out of it for a multitude of very good reasons, before he sighs. “We can’t keep doing this,” he says, but lets go of Thomas with the one hand, using the other’s grip in his mane to help him climb up.

Four years is long enough that he’s lost what grace he might’ve had at it and it really is more like _climbing_ \-- Thomas gives a horsey laugh as Miro finally finds his seat, digging his knees in reproachfully. It’s a good thing it’s impossible to fall off a kelpie unless he wants you to, but even knowing that doesn’t stop Miro from gasping and leaning down low over Thomas’s neck as he charges off up the mountainside with wild reckless leaps more like a goat than a horse, so fast the cold air whipping past makes Miro’s eyes water.

He’s not sure how long they run for; long enough that by the time Thomas finally slows to a jolting, uncomfortable walk it’s full dark, the air steaming up from his hide in angry clouds in the moonlight. Time has a way of slipping off sideways around Thomas when he’s like this. Miro reaches for his phone and only has a few worried-sounding texts. He takes a moment to answer them shortly -- gone to dinner with an unexpected friend, don’t wait up and the like -- while Thomas shoulders his way through scrubby, thorny brush into a clearing with a mostly frozen brook winding through it.

“I hope you weren’t planning to try to drown me in that,” Miro says, deadpan.

Thomas makes a rude noise back at him and cracks the ice open with a quick forehoof strike, leaning down at a very uncomfortable angle to drink his fill. He doesn’t bother standing back up or letting Miro off before he lets the horse form slough off, sending them both tumbling to the mess of snow-and-ice in a pile of tangled limbs and scarves. “Why would I leave a perfectly good lake for that,” he says, “I’d like to know. A perfectly good lake with a chance of dessert afterwards, and a good drink of beer in between, since I doubt you had the foresight to bring anything with you -- you didn’t, did you?”

“No.” Miro disentangles himself enough to retrieve his phone from the snow a few feet away and tuck it back into his pocket, settling his coat around his shoulders again as he sits on a fallen log. “You can have your midlife crises in the summer if you want a better chance of that.”

“The river’s too crowded in the summer,” Thomas says. The air’s still unnaturally hot around him, radiating fey warmth as he shifts over to sit next to Miro again, side to side -- it’s like walking into a warming tent, except there’s the faint, lingering smell of wet horse and river weed instead of hot wine and sugar.

“This is hardly the Isar,” Miro counters, kicking a bit of branch into the hole Thomas had opened in the ice, “and no one told you you’d have to go hunting in the middle of the English Gardens.”

“Could be fun,” Thomas says, in a voice that’s a strange combination of interest and moodiness. He picks up a pebble, sheltered by the log, and throws it in after the stick. “For five minutes or so.” He glances sideways at Miro, then up at the sky, squinting up at the stars, brighter than usual so far out in the middle of nowhere.

The most gruesome thing Thomas has ever drowned and devoured in all the time Miro has known him has been an order too many of schweinshaxe. How much of that is Thomas being himself and how much is the risk and consequence of wider discovery, he’s never asked; it’s always seemed to be enough for him to be seen, to be ridden, to be known. That much Miro’s always been able to give him, but -- “You really should tell someone else,” he says. It comes out harsher than he meant it, but he doesn’t correct himself.

Thomas laughs, sort of, and leans into him, thigh to thigh, his hand straying over onto Miro’s leg and bringing the warmth of his touch with it. He doesn’t need more than that to make Miro’s breath catch in his throat; hasn’t since before South Africa, when Miro hadn’t known better than to look too plainly, too openly at those too-sharp teeth -- “You always say that,” he says, “opa, are you getting bored with me again?”

“Idiot,” Miro sighs, exasperated at how easy it always is for Thomas -- how easy _he_ always makes it for Thomas to deflect, because he’s already hard when Thomas’s hand slips up the inside of his thigh and presses against the fly of his jeans, his body eager and willing even though he knows that one of these days Thomas will need this more than waiting three weeks for winterpause will allow. He doesn’t _want_ to think about it; there can’t be room for jealousy in what they have, not with what it is and who they are, but somehow it always seems to curl its way back into his thoughts.

The bite at the side of his throat -- gentle but not too gentle -- is like an anchor, keeping him settled, _here_ , when he ought to be thinking about the future. Thomas’s clever fingers are at his buttons a moment later, then dipping inside, around him, and Miro moans, a sharp breath through his teeth, then shivering out. He braces one hand on the log beneath them, the other coming up to cover Thomas’s where it’s begun to slowly work him over. “Thomas,” he says.

“Miro,” Thomas echoes. He’s grinning now when he shifts away enough to look at him, moodiness drained from his face and replaced almost entirely with the same dark, half-wild hunger that Miro knows too well himself. “They cancelled it, you know.” 

He pauses there, calculated, catching Miro’s hand, raising it to his mouth and tugging the glove off with his teeth, then swings down to kneel in front of him. “This year’s _Rosstag,_ ” he clarifies just before Miro can ask what he’s talking about. “The weather, or something.”

Miro slides his now-bare hand back up into Thomas’s hair, tangling in his messy, still-damp curls. They don’t feel entirely different on the man than they did on the horse; pulling on them now makes Thomas produce much more interesting noises, but does nothing to stop him talking. “Fascinating.”

“They tried to reschedule,” Thomas continues, even as Miro gently pulls him down, until his breath as he talks ghosts over the bare skin, until he’s shouldering Miro’s thighs further apart and ducking his head the last few centimeters -- and even then, with Miro’s cock pressed up against that too-hot too-soft tongue and stretching the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his cheek, he’s still going, maybe one word in twenty anywhere close to understandable, eyes sparkling with laughter.

“The things you find funny,” Miro says, half-tempted to laugh himself but unable to spare the breath as Thomas doubles and redoubles his efforts until Miro can’t keep still anymore, thrusting gently up into Thomas’s mouth as he sucks him, the frozen bark underneath his palm biting through the leather of his glove.

There have been times when Thomas teased him -- held him at the edge until Miro was sweating, stammering until he was incoherent with the need of it -- but this isn’t one of them, whether it’s the chill of the snowy night or Thomas’s own strange mood, Miro doesn’t know. Just that he doesn’t stop, as driven as Miro’s ever seen him, and doesn’t look away as Miro shivers, bites his lip for silence they don’t need, and comes there, full in his mouth, hand still fisted in his hair.

Thomas’s throat works as he swallows hard, finally sitting back on his heels to lick his lips, then grin up at Miro, eyes still ice-bright. “Would’ve been fifty years,” he says, “if they hadn’t had to cancel.”

“I’m not sure I want to know why you know all this,” Miro says. It’s barely possible that there are normal reasons, but even if it turned out Thomas had simply wanted to show up _with_ his horses instead of _as_ a horse, there are no doubt hours of details about which and how and why that Thomas would eagerly explain. He loosens his grip instead and runs his thumb down across Thomas’s curling lower lip, following that lopsided, knowing grin all the way to the corner where the hint of a tooth shows, too sharp for the illusion to be quite perfect. Another reminder that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he shouldn’t give in all too readily every time Thomas seeks him out -- another reminder that he will, as always, ignore. He leans down instead, cupping Thomas’s cheek and kissing him lightly over the point of that fang. 

Thomas laughs under his mouth, surging upwards and pushing him back until he nearly falls off the back of the log -- would have, if not for the way he settles his weight on Miro’s thigh, a surprisingly heavy counterbalance. “You should decide one of these days how much you do want to know, opa,” he says, but it somehow doesn’t sound like he’s talking about a provincial horse festival anymore, something unnaturally, intensely serious in the comic leer. “Instead of making me chase you across every river in Creation.”

This is patently unfair, but Miro can’t object with anything other than a sharply raised eyebrow because Thomas is kissing him again, harder, greedier, more demanding, his hand finding Miro’s cock again and coaxing it back to life with a few quick, twisting pulls that have Miro gasping into his mouth, raking his lip on a fang and tasting a faint hint of blood--

“Jesus,” Thomas swears, half-muffled but clear enough, and abruptly lets go of Miro’s cock to wrestle with his jeans instead, yanking them down over his thighs as Miro half-stands to help him, Thomas’s short-bitten nails scratching at his skin until jeans and boxers are both down around his knees. “Miro,” he says, and again, “Miro, let me fuck you -- I need it -- _fuck_ \--” and cuts off, finally, blessedly, as Miro pushes the heel of his hand hard against Thomas’s fly, feeling his hips buck forwards to meet the pressure, nearly knocking them over again.

It’s a struggle to get Thomas’s trousers mostly-off too, their hands knocking into each other, scraping across buttons and seams and against bark and bits of ice as they try to stay out of the snow. The truth is that Miro wants it, needs it too, as much as Thomas does, even though he’s already come once, not five minutes ago. The four years since Brazil seem a millennia and nothing simultaneously, and when Thomas shoves impatiently at his shoulder he turns too willingly, adrenaline ripping through him as Thomas crowds up instantly behind him, his cock leaving a hot wet smear of precome like a brand against the back of Miro’s thigh.

“Do it,” Miro says, acutely, embarrassingly aware that his voice isn’t remotely steady, that even his breathing comes out in stuttering half-syllables. His back is a snarled mess of tension where Thomas’s palm presses into it as he braces himself there, guiding his cock between Miro’s legs with the other and thrusting there between them, close against his balls.

They’ve done it like this before, a handful of times, rutting in the surf far away from wherever they were supposed to be, salt and sand settling into the folds of their clothes, the trap of Thomas’s hair -- a paradise six thousand miles from a frozen creek in Bavaria. The terrifying thrill of it is the same. Miro presses his thighs together, tight, and Thomas groans into his shoulder, hand slipping around his waist to take hold of his cock, stroking him in the same jerky, unpredictable rhythm as his thrusts while Miro struggles to keep his balance, to hold them both upright despite the increasing roar of blood in his ears that drowns out the sound of Thomas’s voice and his own guilt alike. 

Thomas is so heavy, so perfect there on top of him, and it’s the weight of him there as much as the hand on him that pushes Miro to the edge again in a matter of minutes, has him arching his back and shoving back at Thomas as if he could take him deeper like this, as if Thomas was inside him, filling him up-- “God,” he says, and “Please, _Thomas,_ ” only vaguely aware that Thomas is saying his name, too, that he has both hands on Miro’s hips to hold him steady, to fuck harder between his thighs. It’s enough, somehow, anyway: when Miro comes it’s like that, without a touch except for the press of Thomas’s cock along his own and seconds later the wet heat of his come.

It leaves him dazed and shaken, unprotesting as Thomas shifts them to the ground, on top of the untidily shed heap of their coats. Someday, he thinks fleetingly, someday they should do this in a bed -- opa cracks aside, he really might be getting too old for this -- but that would make it real. This is easier: Thomas kneeling in front of him again, kissing the deep splintery scratches in Miro’s palms until they fade to tender bruises, ducking down to lick the smeared mess of their come from Miro’s thighs, chasing each drop with his tongue.

And this is easier: reaching down to hold Thomas’s face in his hands, savoring the ghost of pain and the few seconds of absolute quiet as Thomas glances up at the touch.

He doesn’t ask what Thomas had meant by _how much he should want to know._


End file.
